


Post Mortem

by billspilledquill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coda, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Moriarty's death wish, Pining, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21959584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Why Jim Moriarty said bless you before pulling the trigger.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Post Mortem

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like how this turned out. But I guess it's fine- it _is_ Christmas. Happy holidays!

Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was a clever detective who would get bored. Then murders happened. Double murders, in fact. Intricate lines of clues, but not clever enough to be enticing. Classy, respectful, extremely benign: _stupid_.

‘Oh, why does it always have to be Christmas?’ John said; the voice rattled in his mind, deleted as quickly as it came.

‘Better gift than Mrs. Hudson’s, though. I doubt we need any more teacups.’

‘The feeling is shared, John.’ Sherlock said, blinking as the corpses floated about. Or maybe it was him. It was dull, it _felt_ dull. ‘The corpse is not even taken care of. Too obvious. Too easy. Barely an Easter surprise.’

_What a twat, they really ought to learn. But you can’t solve it, can you?_

Sherlock looked up to John. The latter stared back, comically wide-eyed. ‘Something wrong, Sherlock?’

The wallpaper stayed still. Sherlock was floating. ‘Nothing of consequence,’ he managed. ‘Did you just say—’

♫ _Sherlock is wordy. Sherlock is moody. Sherlock is naughty._ ♫

‘Sherlock? Are you alright?’

_Can’t solve a crime and can’t stay clean, aw. What a poor little image you make for Mr. Santa._

‘Oh, do shut up,’ he snapped, meeting John’s offended gaze. 

He blinked. John floated too. The corpses in tatters; evaporated. Chain smoking. The thin air spoke through the smoke: _Santa’s coming, Santa’s coming, he’s coming to town—_

John’s moustache moved as he spoke something that suggested concern. His top hat was on, a glove off, his hand on Sherlock’s, taking his pulse. Watson’s frock coat was carefully folded on his chair. A perceived date for the evening. Victorian England as the fog rose to his lungs, inhaling all that insane criminality.

‘You have been out for quite some time, Holmes,’ said Watson. ‘Some signs of heart damage. An opium lover should have more care. If it were not for the fashion of the day, I wouldn’t have known that it did look handsome on some.’ 

‘Yes,’ Holmes exhaled. ‘Of course. Would you kindly shut up and lock the door, as I am sure will surely downplay the degradation process of whoever’s heart I am currently in possession of.’ 

Watson’s hand squeezed his gently, anxiously. ‘Promise me—’

Holmes nodded; eyes closed. The door swung shut. The floor started the creak once more, welcoming and familiar; a humming. A promise. Fix it. 

‘How is it that you’re still here?’ He tilted his head backward, let it rest on top of the chair. Sun had filtered through, this time, and the figure was bright, a red tailcoat, terrible and not, dramatic and not. Not dull, his heart sang, not dull not dull not dull. 

‘You’re here,’ he said. 

‘The fantasy is shared, I see,’ Holmes stood up, swiftly, like his heart wasn’t burning. ‘Doesn’t change the fact that you’re dead.’

‘It’s Christmas, my dear! Indulge a little miracle.’ The voice drawled on. Bach’s _Mass in B minor._ ‘Mr. Santa’s coming soon. You can unwrap your gift. So sorry to have kept you waiting, Sherlock.’

* * *

The last time was at John’s wedding. When it was night and he had a tuxedo, the white daffodil dangling at the fabric. Moriarty wore a white Versace. The warm air was lighter outside without the people and their transpiration. 

Moriarty’s eyes stayed on the stars, allowed himself to be examined the same way he was doing to the constellations, those who connected dots and assumed names; the white melting in with the dawning sunset. Perhaps it was for the nice, reflective image of blood, perhaps not. 

The music trailed down the afternoon air. It seeped through, from the dancing hall to the mowed lawn, it dawned on Sherlock that Moriarty’s appearance was both reason and consequence of loneliness. He would have cared— he _will_ care, _soon_ , when the emotional response will kick in to replace to adrenaline. 

Moriarty crossed his arms, then spread them wide. 

‘ _Hullo_ ,’ the man said softly to the stars. He extended a hand toward the sky. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Jimmy, and you are?’

‘White hardly suits you.’ 

‘Hm. Too innocent?’

Sherlock made a face. ‘Not enough, I’d day.’

That comment seemed to deserve a reaction. Moriarty’s eyes searched for his, seemingly unaware of the speaker. Wide black eyes rested on the daffodil; his lips formed a circle.

‘I love weddings. It’s always the right shot at a good ending, is it?’ He made a childish impression of a gun. _Pew_. ‘It’s _adorable_. Thought I might try.’

The voice was clinical, obtuse. Sherlock pressed on; some fury balled tight. _Why don’t you never feel pain?_

‘You’re not the one getting married today.’

‘So are you. Disappointed?’

‘Marriage is not for me.’

Moriartfy smiled. A delighted little thing, all teeth; joyless. ‘Marry me, then. After all, I’m your best work.’

‘You’re dead,’ he said, then added, scarcely wishing it. ‘You don’t even have a ring.’

‘Aw, don’t be a bore. I don’t need toys to tie yourself to me.’ Moriarty pouted. ‘You have to _feeeeeeeel_ it, Sherlock.’ His hands over his heart. Gesturing. ‘Don’t fear it. _C’moooon_.’

Moriarty stretched out a hand that Sherlock knew full well was his own. Know full well its intention. Sherlock’s intention. _His own_. ‘I know you have practiced,’ Moriarty purred, his lashes lowered to the ground. ‘Wouldn’t want you to put all that hard work to waste.’

Moriarty’s eyes crinkled. It was sunset; it was star. It was everything that cannot exist together, bound to collide with insanity. Sherlock invented all that. _Fix it. Fix it for me, Jim_ — It was a simple deduction. 

‘I know,’ Sherlock took his hand in a flourish. Surprised that he didn’t float. ‘You’re dead.’

A breathy, quiet laugh echoed the other, and Sherlock stopped himself before it was anything close to happiness. A virus. A data breach willingly admitted into the system. Moriarty was not a man. He can’t. It would trouble him, and not in a way that mattered to the game. 

‘Do you think their music is better than ours, Sherlock?’ Moriarty prompted suddenly. Sherlock took his extended hand, a motion for a handshake, or something else. ‘Because you’ve got the best music, my dear. Kind of pompous of you, really, with all your _Preludes_ and _Fugues_ —’ he waved one exaggerated hand about, the other quiet and still in Sherlock’s, ‘I have to listen to it all the same in that dreadful little room of mine,’ Moriarty bended his head; shook it. ‘But it’s better. It’s better. Oh god, it is marvellous. It goes, pa- _pa_ -pah—’ 

Moriarty conducted with one hand; eyes closed. Sherlock heard cords. It was nothing more— nothing less— than a pipe dream. 

‘It’s John’s wedding,’ Sherlock said, on the verge of confession. ‘I had to leave. No one to dance to.’

Moriarty didn’t stop the music. He hummed along. ‘It can be anyone’s. It could be yours, and you would still be here, with me. In your mind. Because—'

 _We are better._

‘Good,’ Moriarty laughed. ‘But not exactly. Because ultimately—'

 _I am you._

‘Very good!’ The hand tightened its grip. ‘Very good, Sherlock,’ he said, then added, ‘thank you.’

The stars naming themselves, signing and colliding without administration. Sherlock never cared about stars; noticed substances, never names. _We are better than the whole rotten bunch put together, Sherlock._ And Sherlock caught some names or two, some in distant files, some in Moriarty’s trilling fingers in his. He caught them, one by one, drew a chart starting from his black, empty eyes, and let out some light. 

Moriarty glanced back to the sky. The sun was rising this time, as if they spent days and nights together, talking with one hand clasped in the other, moving still, modulation between all keys musically acceptable, made possible by the sounds in his head, in Moriarty’s head. _His own._

‘Are we going to dance?’ 

The question: a soft dissonance. Balance tipping; an almost mistake. 

Moriarty pretended to think for a moment. ‘I think we should shake hands. Isn’t here Hell?’ His eyes fixed on him. ‘I know you practiced a lot, dear. But I’m afraid that I never dance. I watch others do that. More of a clapper, really.’ 

‘I’m not the others,’ he said. 

‘You’re Sherlock Holmes,’ Moriarty said, gently dropping his hand to the side. _I like to watch you dance_. He lifted his gun— small and old-fashioned, from the 1890s— and suddenly they were back to his flat, Moriarty back in a red, brazen tailcoat; trouser that went to his waist. 

‘Bless you,’ Moriarty stage-whispered. ‘Bless you, Sherlock Holmes.’ The pink visible as he opened his mouth wide. Sounds made from an open mouth. Gah-gah-ah. Ah-ah. Ah-ah-ah-gah. 

_Thank you. Bless you. See you soon._

The clock strike three. It was Christmas.

* * *

There was something Mr. Sherlock Holmes missed, and since he was very smart, very clever, he began to wonder: when the big, bad wolf died, did he leave anything for him?

‘I don’t see any gift,’ Sherlock remarked. The wallpaper remained silent. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, and Mrs. Hudson’s teacups were ghastly, but the tea was good. John had left the place. Moriarty just blew his brains out; a minute after he said: ‘Well, I _did_ just kill myself. Have some patience.’

From the door. Sherlock imagined Jim Moriarty, back against the door, his hair done and eyes black. Staring. 

‘Answer me.’

‘I thought you would prefer to deduce it, Mr. Consultant Detective.’

‘Oh, I very much prefer the Consultant Criminal tell me himself.’ 

‘I will, my dear,’ and it sounded like a promise. _Fix it. Fix it for me. Fix it fix it fix it._ ‘Wait until you see your gift.’

A knock. The door wasn’t usually closed. ‘C’mon, let the wolf in,’ the voice prompted, sweetly, gently, softly. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Pain is not something you have to fear.’

‘You’re not a man,’ he said as he opened the door. Moriarty had a plain white shirt.

‘Oh well,’ Moriarty rolled his eyes up to the celling. He landed on Sherlock’s chair with a dramatic flair that unfortunately reminded him of his own. ‘That’s what you desire, my good sir, since the prospect of me being a man would prove disastrous to your understanding of—’ there was a small, exaggerated, delighted gasp. ‘ _Oooooh_ , there’s tea. What a good host you make. How jolly.’

‘You’re dead.’

‘How many times do you have to remind yourself that?’ Moriarty chided. His voice was soft, smooth after every sip of tea. He had put five sugars in. ‘Let’s say I’m dead.’ They shared a look; Moriarty pulled up his shoulders. ‘OK, fine, I _am_ dead.’ He took another sip. ‘What does it matter? I live here now. Better than baby Jesus on his heap. Much more comfortable than that dreadful little flat.’

‘What flat?’

‘England,’ he said, rolled his shoulders. His head tilted; side to side. ‘Didn’t you have a murder to solve? It’s not gentlemanly to leave your pet waiting at the crime scene, is it. Passing out on the dead’s carpet, undried blood staining your very average clothes, etc., etc., etc.’

Sherlock shrugged. Looked at the swirl as he poured the milk. ‘Wasn’t interesting enough to keep me awake.’

‘I bet I will,’ Moriarty blinked slowly; smiled in cadence. ‘I’m a good distraction.’

‘The best,’ Sherlock amended. 

‘Your best work,’ he chanted. ‘Should have married me when you got the chance. Pity.’ He curled his hands around the teacup, trying to steal warmth. He always stole with pride in his stance. ‘Must be tiring, with all those people.’

‘Quite so.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Of course.’

Black returned. Eyes boring into his. 

‘I am you.’ Moriarty nodded, to himself mostly. Sherlock would see brown if he were to open his eyes. He was to remember the rooftop; he was glad not to. ‘I am you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock offered a non-committal shrug. He simply miscalculated the fact that they were in his mind, drinking tea and talking and _of course you are me, what a question._

‘Thank you,’ Moriarty said, looking relieved. The brown was gone. A blackout and no light filtered through. It wasn’t the rooftop. 

(The hand. The trigger. Mouth opened wide. Golden eyes saying well, _good luck with that_. Pulling, smiling, mouthing. _Thank you_.)

Moriarty didn’t move. He never did. Memory can only work out so far with imagination. The real Jim Moriarty sat on Sherlock Holmes’ chair years ago, ate an apple and went on destroying his life. _Bless you, Sherlock Holmes. Bless you._ This one was doing the same, leaving the apple. Tree of knowledge cut down, skinned, carved _I owe you I owe you I owe you._ There was something; a question. 

‘Well, do ask it,’ Moriarty stretched his neck lazily. ‘You do know that I’ve got alllllll the time in the world, my dear.’

How Sherlock wished that they were allegorical. A Biblical parable. A fairy-tale. Stories. How much of their story could be recounted as such. How enchanting. ( _How_ very _telling_.)

‘I.O.U.,’ Sherlock stated. ‘That sentence. It means something to you.’

‘Of course it does. You mean a lot to me.’

‘You could have killed me,’ he said, now a confession.

‘You didn’t want to die,’ Moriarty poured himself another. He had a little angry frown when the milk spilled as he was putting too much. ‘It disappointed me; I have to admit. Always wanted to see Holmes killing Holmes; excited me at night. But it’s alright. It’s all dandy now. I’d hate to owe things to you in the afterlife.’ 

‘You never owed me anything.’

The tea was hot on his tongue, then cold. Jim Moriarty blinked a few times, confused. The door shut; the window shut. Sherlock missed no one and thought of no one. He thought for a brief second that it could be _fine_ , perhaps, to die with him. But Moriarty blinked again, and answered, ‘you know I can’t answer anything you don’t know about me; ‘m dead. Be patient. Christmas is coming. Santa’s fake, but we must keep it light; _festive_ , that’s the word. Be kind and there might be some good people who will commit murder and have the decency to be clever about it.’

‘Now, now,’ the man shushed; went down to his knees. ‘Off you pop.’ Then Moriarty opened his mouth wide. Shot himself with blood and tea drooling from his lips.   
  
Sherlock woke up in the sofa with a letter. John was looking at him with sad, angry eyes. Said Scotland Yard managed to solve the very easy, very boring crime. How Lestrade sent his Christmas wishes. About tonight’s Christmas party. He didn’t ask about the needle.

* * *

_His hand hovered over his coat. Moriarty’s smile didn’t falter. His gaze on the ground; searching. His hand hovered over his coat. His hand hovered over— empty in the air, nothing to grasp— then finally dropped, like his eyes, to the level of Sherlock’s hands. His hand hovered over his coat. He never touched him. Handshake was better than a dance. Fix it. Fix it for me, Jim._

_Thank you. Bless you. Then after was a blur._

_Move on. Move on. Then there was nothing to fix._

_His hand hovered over his coat. Thick, black coat. He never touched him; only the handshake. Fix it fix it fix it. Fix it for me, Jim._

* * *

Jim Moriarty lay on the sun-bitten asphalt of St-Barts’ rooftop; pieces of brain splattered with blood. The kiss of Judas; _then hanged himself, burst asunder_ — an unfit story for a spider, one that Sherlock had the misfortune of keeping in his hard drive, but it fitted nicely for a man. 

* * *

_His hand hovered over his coat. Moriarty smiled, said— Thank what? Bless whom? His eyes dropped to the ground; searching. Fix it— fix what? For whom? Move where? For whom? Sherlock replayed the scene, and there was: his hand hovering over his coat. The handshake; the kiss of Judas. For whom? For whom? For whom?_

_A death wish was dull dull dull. It wasn’t Moriarty. It wasn’t clever. It was the only thing he did that wasn’t clever and it mattered. The fact that Moriarty was a man didn’t.  
_   
_His hand hovered over his coat. Thick, black coat. In this dream sequence he would have touched him. Fix it. Fix it for me, Jim._

_The death was a betrayal of their game, the error, an encompassing mistake. Sherlock won; that was the story he kept telling. That was the story others believed. He read it in the newspaper so it must be true. Moriarty loved newspapers. Fairy tales._

* * *

Once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was a clever detective who would get bored. He wasn’t bored now. He sniffed the letter; almost licked it. The letter was unopened, though stayed with the owner often. Doubtlessly inside the pocket of a velvet coat, where the owner had repeatedly rubbed their thumb on the material, smothering the edges. 

Downstairs were the music. A party of some kind. Mrs. Hudson came to check on him some time ago, but blessedly left him alone when he offered praise for her teacups. The music was loud. 

‘Is this my gift?’ He asked quietly; tongue pushing his palette. ‘How is _that_ a gift?’

A clue would be a gift. A clue about Moriarty’s whereabouts would be a Christmas miracle. But he knew what was inside and even Sherlock wouldn’t strictly consider that a gift, no matter how bad he was at gifting etiquette. 

It was sent in two years ago, Mrs. Hudson explained with a distressed frown. She kept it somewhere secret (Sherlock’s bet was on the Ferrari), and gave it to him when he woke up (to which Sherlock assured her was for making up the lack of sleep). She knew what it was, any bloody fool can know what was inside. The form wasn’t subtle, but it was clever. Reassuring. 

It dawned on Sherlock that Moriarty was both reason and consequence of loneliness. It was starting to hit him, like the needle, except loneliness couldn’t go so far down his veins, break into his major arteries, pump in the blood that was missing in a missed heart. It was cosmic. Stars. Moriarty was a story. The best one. _The best work._

Sherlock put the letter over his lips; curled himself into a sitting position. In another dream sequence he would have touched him. In another they would have danced. In every single one it ended with a handshake, a wide pink mouth, and _bless you, Sherlock Holmes, bless you._

* * *

_His hand hovered over his coat. Jim Moriarty never touched him._

_You’re just getting that now? The man laughed delightfully. Poor, poor man. He is really just getting it now. He kept laughing, and Sherlock didn’t mind. A soft joy had taken hold of him, and Moriarty shook his hand, said thank you, whispered bless you, and shot himself again and again and again._

_Fairy tales: once upon a time, Jim Moriarty was a bad, bad man. He killed himself and he won, Sherlock Holmes knew. He won._

* * *

The cross was warm under his fingertips. Moriarty didn’t care about redemption— he wanted that cross to slash his throat, to stab into the depth of his veins, to gag him blue. But the envelop was damp and the cross warm, and as Sherlock let it cool on his lips, for the first time he dared to call it a prayer. 


End file.
